Page 3

Two

Jensen

“ B rothers and sisters, let us remember that God’s love is steadfast and his grace is sufficient for all our needs. No matter the trials we face, His word is a lamp to our feet and a light to our path.”

Heads nod in the congregation. Thousands of eyes point in my direction as I speak, but my attention catches on the few who momentarily glance down, distracted by something on their phones or carrying on a small conversation with their neighbors.

When I raise my voice, just a hair for dramatic effect, they all turn back to me. It lights a fire in my veins. My heart thrums harder.

“Let us walk boldly in faith, trusting in his sacrifice and sharing his love with the world around us.”

More heads nod.

Preaching is a performance. One I’ve prided myself on getting pretty good at over the years. It’s an art form, really, turning Bible scriptures into narratives, compelling and relatable.

“Have we not our own sins by which the good Lord has sacrificed himself for?” I ask softly as I rest a hand on the pulpit. As I stare out into the audience, I try to bare a piece of my soul to each of them. Like casting a line and hoping to catch a bite. Except it’s not fish I’m after, but kinship.

There’s a buzz under my skin as my eyes connect with a woman near the middle. She’s clinging to every word, hope and desperation in her eyes. She’s not here because she’s been ingrained with a responsibility to worship. She’s here because she needs this.

We all need this.

This hope. This faith. This harmony.

To stave off the loneliness, or the shame, or the fear, or all of the above.

“Let me ask you, my friends, what are you doing with your life to honor Christ’s sacrifice? How are you spending your time before your final judgment day? Are you wasting it on hatred and judgment of your brothers and sisters? Or are you using the blessing of time you’ve been given to look after one another? Love each other as Jesus loves you.”

The woman in the middle grows misty-eyed and I give her a soft smile and a simple nod.

After concluding my second sermon today with a prayer, I breathe a sigh of relief at the pulpit. I make my way down to the floor to mingle with the congregation, and before long, a crowd forms, waiting to shake my hand or share their kind words.

After they’ve all cleared out, I make my way through the back halls of the church toward my office. The team has everything else under control, and I have a meeting to get to that I don’t intend to miss. It took me months to set it up.

As I reach the office, I quickly change out of my formal shirt and into something more casual. My phone chimes with a text message and I quickly pick it up to check while standing in my black slacks in my private office.

Dad: Beautiful sermon this morning, son. I’m so proud of you.

Smiling down at the screen, I type out a quick response.

Glad you liked it. Thank you.

Before I can put it away, I notice an incoming email and a sense of guilt gnaws at my stomach.

From: Eternal Harmony

To: Jensen Miles

Subject: Invitation to the Annual Conference, Harmony for All

I don’t open the email. I just stare at it in my inbox and mentally berate myself for not being more enthusiastic about responding.

Deep down, I don’t want to attend or contribute to the organization, and I haven’t for years. But there’s a deep gnawing guilt for putting off their requests. I’ll deal with it later. It’s a heavy topic to tackle in a rush.

After getting dressed, I throw my phone in my pocket and check my watch. Twelve fifteen. I’m going to be late if I don’t hurry.

Rushing out of my office, I wave at everyone who congratulates me on a job well done this morning as I pass by them on my way out to the parking lot. I thank them all and burst out into the sunlight behind the church where my Lexus is parked in the first spot.

Zipping out of the lot, I make my way to the location on my car’s nav system. It’s in an older part of town, and there’s not a spot to park in at first, so I circle the block a couple of times until I find something.

It’s a couple minutes past twelve thirty when I pull open the door to Sal’s Diner. The bell above me chimes as I enter, drawing the attention of the people lingering around, waiting for a table to open up.

I see a hand waving from a small booth near the window, so I squeeze through the crowd and make my way over.

Adam Goode stands up to shake my hand as I approach him.

“Thanks for meeting me,” I say as I take a seat across from him.

“Of course. I watched your sermon this morning. It was good.”

I smirk as a waitress comes over and fills up his coffee cup. When I turn mine over, she fills it as well.

“I’ll give you two a couple minutes to look at the menu,” she says before walking away with the coffeepot.

“Thanks,” I mumble to her as I stir cream and sugar into my mug.

Adam doesn’t say a word at first, and judging by the tepid, unwelcoming expression on his face, he’s skeptical of me and probably doesn’t want to be here. I don’t blame him.

To him, I’m on the enemy’s side. I’m filling the shoes he probably once thought he’d fill himself. The Goode family drama has been the talk of the town for nearly two years now, and Adam wanted it that way. He made a spectacle of himself the year his father was arrested.

I decide to start with small talk in hopes that I can get him to relax and trust me. I want him to see that I’m a nice guy and nothing like his father.

“Interesting location for a meeting. Do you come here often?” I ask.

“I used to write my sermons here,” he replies as he glances out the window. “Met my wife here.”

He doesn’t look like the same man I knew when he was in the spotlight. He looks more comfortable, laid-back. Softer around the face with a bushier beard and crow’s-feet blossoming around his eyes. All the signs of a comfortable, happy man.

“You don’t preach in your church on Sundays?” I ask as I lift my coffee to my lips.

“No,” he replies, sitting back. “I’ll never preach again. And it’s not my church. We use it to feed the homeless and offer support to the community.”

“Noble,” I reply with sincerity. “So, no congregation.”

“We have a congregation,” he replies smartly, and I worry that he’s taking my tone as sarcasm. “It’s just a lot smaller than yours.”

“Equally virtuous.”

“Don’t patronize me, Mr. Miles.”

I put up my hands in surrender. “I promise you, I’m not.”

“Then what can I help you with?”

He wants to get straight to business, which means my attempt at small talk has failed. That’s fine. I can still make my case.

“I used to preach at a much smaller church in Georgetown when I had the opportunity to preach at Redemption Point. When I arrived, the congregation was weak, jilted, wary. But a lot of them stayed because that church was their home.”

“You’ve built it up nicely, I see,” he replies flatly. “So, what do you need from me?”

“I’d like to invite you to join us.”

His eyes narrow at me from across the table. “Join you where?”

“To our service at Redemption Point. Join me at the pulpit. I’d like to really show the people our solidarity.”

“Mr. Miles, we do not have solidarity. I won’t step foot in that church again. Do you even realize what you’re asking of us? My father built that church. The man who has tormented our family. Nearly killed my wife and kidnapped my niece. He broke my mother’s heart and…”

He cuts himself off, grinding his molars as he glances away from me and around the diner.

“I expected this reaction from you,” I say softly. “And it’s warranted. Trust me, I know.”

“Then why would you ask?”

“Because your father is gone. He’s behind bars and that church might have been his creation, but the people are just as hurt as you are. They want to know you haven’t abandoned them.”

“Most of those people you speak of rallied around my father after his conviction. They supported him even after finding out what he did.”

“Who are we to judge?” I ask calmly.

He huffs with a shake of his head. “You have a lot of nerve, Jensen.”

The corner of my mouth twitches. “So I’ve been told. And I don’t often take no for an answer.”

“I’m telling you no,” Adam says bluntly, this time staring into my eyes.

I lean back and let out a sigh. I’m not giving up. I just need to find another angle.

The waitress comes back and takes our order. I keep it simple with just an order of bacon, eggs, and toast. Adam gets the biscuits and gravy.

“What about your brothers?” I ask casually, taking another sip of coffee.

“What about them?”

“You have three, right?”

Adam tenses and glances up at me skeptically. “How much do you know about my brothers?”

“Not much,” I reply casually. “There were some photos left over at the church. I did some light research. Saw you had twin brothers, Caleb and Luke. And one younger, but I couldn’t find much on him.”

He nods before crossing his arms over his chest. “Do you always stalk the personal details of everyone you have breakfast with?”

I laugh, although he remains stoic. “It’s hardly stalking, Mr. Goode. Your family has been local celebrities since that church opened. More so in the past two years. You made sure of that.”

His eyes narrow again. “Well, if your research was any good, then you’d know that I am the only Goode son who had any chance of following in his father’s footsteps. Luke and Caleb don’t give a shit about the church and never did.”

“And your youngest brother? What happened to him?” I ask.

“He’s gone,” Adam responds coldly as he takes a drink and avoids my gaze. “Ran away a long time ago, so leave him out of it.”

My blood runs a little cooler with the severity of his tone. “It’s not my intention to pry. I assumed he was no longer in the picture. I couldn’t find anything on him except for a photo of a little boy your father kept on his desk. I figured it was him.”

“I don’t want to talk about him anymore, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.”

What the hell happened to his brother? I get a nagging suspicion that there’s something darker and more serious there than I realize.

We sit in silence for a few moments as I weigh my options. Our food arrives and I spend the time boasting about the church and all we’ve accomplished since I’ve taken over. I’m still trying to win him over. I could press him some more to attend for the people’s sake, but it’s obvious he feels as betrayed by them as they do by him.

And I’m not trying to manipulate Adam into something he doesn’t want, but the truth is…Redemption Point will never be as good as it once was until we’ve made it clear that Truett Goode’s scandal is behind us. We have to make peace as a community.

“You know…” I say carefully once our breakfast is mostly eaten.

Adam glances up at me skeptically.

“RP can offer resources for your cause. I’m sure what you have going on at your church is wonderful, but we could give you more. You’ve seen what we have at our disposal. You could feed more mouths, reach more people, offer more?—”

He holds up a hand to stop me. “Are you bribing me?”

I watch his features and remember that Adam Goode is not a virtuous man anymore. He’s not as pious or as obedient as he once let the world believe.

I’ve seen the videos.

“Maybe,” I reply with a shrug as I meet his gaze.

“You’ve got some fucking balls, Jensen.”

I smirk at him as I set down my fork. “Yes, I thought we’ve established that.”

He watches me as if he’s just now noticing something about me. Then, suddenly, his expression changes. It hardens. Placing his fork down, he pushes his plate away. Then he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. I watch with confusion as he slips a twenty-dollar bill from the fold and drops it on the table.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“It was nice meeting you, Mr. Miles. I wish you all the best with Redemption Point. I’m sure it’s in good hands.”

As he stands up, I reach out a hand and place it on his arm to stop him. “I don’t understand. What did I say?”

He lets out a sigh with hooded lids, a look of disappointment on his face. “It’s not what you said,” he murmurs. “It’s who you reminded me of when you said it.”

With that, he pulls his arm away and walks out of the diner. I’m left alone and reeling.

If he’s implying what I think he’s implying, it’s a cold punch to the gut I wasn’t expecting.

He thinks I’m like his father—like Truett Goode. It’s a sobering realization. One I wish I could argue. I might have the same job and even the same demeanor, but if only Adam Goode knew the truth, he’d know. I am nothing like that man.